On March 15, 2020, when the Philippine government imposed one of the longest lockdowns due to the Covid pandemic in the world, my life as I knew it, ended. Four years later, I look back at what was lost—and what I gained.
It was during the pandemic that I began sleeping with the window blinds up. In fact, it was during the pandemic that I began staring out my window at all hours of the day and night, wondering what was going on in the condos along the horizon. The windows and balconies would be grey and motionless–tomb-like–until the day ended and lights illuminated the bedrooms and living rooms in the building, signs of life of individuals and families trapped in their spaces, rendered immobile by an invisible virus that had stopped all social interaction.
I wondered how people managed in small condo spaces, How did they spend their time? Did they read the books they had planned to but never had time for? Did they cook up a storm trying new recipes? Did they sit before the TV all day watching all the Korean telenovelas on Netflix? Have they started writing the book they’ve been meaning to write? Were they focused on their phones and their computers all day? And if they had small children, how did they keep them entertained?
I would go to bed with the lights in the distance giving me comfort in my isolation, knowing I was not alone. I often wondered if the condo dwellers stared at my window as well, and asking the same questions during that intolerably lonely time.
It was not all wasted time for me. I had my work. For a couple of months, I kept writing my weekly column for The Star until there was nothing to write about and I stopped. My life was at a standstill, but for a number of people I knew, it had ended. I could not burden my readers, who were suffering in the pandemic as I was, with my unrequited loneliness and grief. As the deaths from the virus and other causes increased, I began to list down the names of the departed whom I knew, most of them close family and friends, some I had met at least once. By the middle of 2022, my list numbered 106. And I had not attended a single wake.
In April 2020, the family was hit hard when our sister Tictac, passed away, partly from Covid, in San Diego, California, with no one of us in attendance. In deep grief and needing a group hug, if only virtually, all nine of us who were left behind got together— Ducky in Misamis Oriental, Barbara in Oregon, Aping in Florida, Gabby and Lory in California, Jim in Sydney, and Jesse, Raffy and I in Manila, on a virtual wake via Zoom. This became a weekly gathering that has continued to the present—not as a ritual but like a much-awaited Sunday meal in the old house where the family gathers happily and anything and everything is on the table.
Coffeetable books the author has edited
I had work that I did not realize was possible to accomplish online. I edited several books that saw publication. But my pride and joy are a collaboration with the authors and an artist, in editing and producing two handsome coffee table books—all via email, Messenger, and Zoom. But I wasn’t writing.
When there were no projects, I caught up with my reading, tackling a pile of books that had been sitting by my bedside for years, waiting to be appreciated. And when that was done, I raided my sister’s library devouring novels and best sellers I should have read earlier but had no time for.
And as the quarantine rules were loosened, I took to walking around my neighborhood, aiming for 10,000 steps but settling more realistically on 5,000 daily. To this day, walking is something my body looks for every day at sundown. Although my mind would wander into topics I could have pursued, I never followed up on them.
As a homebody, I never had to dress up during the pandemic. I lived in my night clothes until lunchtime and wore shorts and a t-shirt the rest of the day, which culminated in my walk around the neighborhood. Meanwhile, in my wardrobe, my dresses hung untouched, ageing from unuse, like ghosts from a more active past life.
After over two years, when the deadly virus began mutating to near insignificance, I finally acquired Covid—twice. The first time was in Sydney at Christmas 2022, and the second in Manila right after New Year 2024. But if not for the positive test results, it was a mere rite of passage, nothing to write about. It was just, finally, my turn.
The worst is over. Life, as I knew it, is back to normal. Politics, corruption, poverty, bad governance, traffic, pollution, criminality, among other ills— all fodder for a political writer like myself —are back with a vengeance. Not that they ever left, but the clean air and the almost empty streets during the pandemic were a welcome, albeit unnatural, change.
I mistake them momentarily for bright stars shining compassionately upon the earth
But I’m not quite back to normal. I seem to have lost my groove. I have not written anything beyond two feature articles urgently requested by editor-friends in almost four years. This is my first attempt at writing a personal essay, and here I am groping for words and editing myself to death, wondering if I’m contributing anything of value to my would-be readers.
What is back to normal is my social life—what with classmates and family on revenge travel, lunches, reunions, and advocacies demanding much of my time. I have not been very productive as a writer and editor, but my social life is definitely on steroids, challenging my wardrobe that still has to be upgraded to post-pandemic fashion.
But habits die hard. As I began four years ago when the pandemic was upon us, I continue to keep my blinds open at night, allowing me a view of the condo lights in the distance from my bed. Often, when I get up to pee in the middle of the night, I mistake them momentarily for bright stars shining compassionately upon the earth. And in the morning, I am awakened by sunlight brushing my cheek and painting patterns on my bedroom wall.
Which is a good way to start my day—with the resolve, to paraphrase Julian of Norwich, that after four long years, all shall be well today, all manner of things shall be well. And I will write again.
